Fascist State
by Sunruner
Summary: It's 1943 and WWII is beginning to wear on the world, but nowhere is the change being felt more-so than in Italy. An impromptu visit to Rome shows Germany just what kind of ally he really has lying in the south, and as everything continues to break down the Axis powers are left with more questions than answers. Dark Hetalia. Discontinued.
1. Confidence Vote

**Starvation, I Have A Story, Motherland, Live Together Die Alone, Fight For What You Believe.**

**I've got a **_**lot **_**of headcanons surrounding how the historical end of WWII effected the Hetalia characters, so I wanted to explore the most interesting one here with Italy. I haven't finished it yet, but here's the first chapter for a bit of fun.**

**Tell me what you guys think?**

**Thanks!**

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_**Fascist State**_

Confidence Vote

_July 25__th__, 1943..._

"_Go to Rome. Something's happening down there and whatever it is, I want you to put a stop to it."_

His boss's words were still ringing in Ludwig's ears. The German Fatherland was frustrated as, for once, he was being ordered to go to Italy's aid instead of responding to desperate, screaming pleas over a telephone line. Skirting Switzerland's territory to prevent an incident, the heavily armed convoy he left Berlin with made good time cutting down the Italian peninsula towards Rome.

When he arrived, Ludwig understood why he'd been sent. It was uncanny: the streets of Italy's largest and most beloved city were empty, completely silent, and it wasn't the good-natured calm of everyone turning in for their afternoon nap either. The July air was tense and hot, waves of heat distorting the light as Ludwig's jeep took the front position in the convoy. Perhaps it was dangerous to drive out in the open like this, but he wasn't afraid of the silence.

He knew Italy had been faring poorly in the war; the Balkans were a mess, he'd lost his colonial territories in North Africa, half his men on the Eastern Front had died, and now the Allies were invading Sicily, but this silence was unlike him. He should have been bawling his eyes out and throwing his cities into fits of hysteria and pleas for help. Not silence. Not the strict control Ludwig witnessed as the only other vehicle they saw was a military jeep much like his own. Two Italian Blackshirts were standing with machine guns in hand, watching the quiet street for any sign of movement and keeping a wary eye on the German convoy as they passed.

_'So he __**does**__ know how to run a Police State...'_ Ludwig thought approvingly, still put off by the strange environment, but they were almost at the Presidential Palace when-

"Commander!"

Smoke?

And a distant boom-

"There are no planes!" Not an air-strike, but they heard another explosion and a plume of smoke began to build over the rooftops, the white froth cutting across the blue sky.

"_Move!_" He bellowed, his driver slamming the accelerator and shooting them down the winding, cobbled street between the tall buildings. Ludwig didn't have to give orders to the rest of the convoy, the radio in front of him crackled with German voices as they broke apart and turned down different lanes, all prepared to enter the same square from different directions.

Two minutes later Ludwig could see the freely burning bodies of two military vehicles- one jeep and the other a tank that had been set up for show and intimidation. The smoke was riding the wind and filling the square so it was hard to see what was happening, but his driver stopped once they heard gunfire. Ludwig jumped from his seat and into a crouch on the ground, pistol in hand as someone went sprinting by in the white glare, the smoke hiding whoever it was so he didn't know whether to shoot or stay down.

A spray of bullets from the palace steps answered his question, and the man in civilian clothes fell screaming to the ground.

"_Long live the King!"_

"_Drive them back!"_ Furious Italian followed the bullets, Ludwig half-convinced he knew the voice, but he couldn't place it. _"Traitors! Shoot them!"_

"_For the Führer!" _Ludwig bellowed, looking across the plaza as the wind opened a brief gap in the smoke: he saw one of the armoured jeeps from Berlin burst into the square and run down a second retreating figure. Another runner burst through the smoke and this time Ludwig squeezed the trigger, missing with his first two shots before someone clipped the rebel in the shoulder, allowing the German to put a bullet in his chest and head.

From somewhere, maybe an alley, or a rooftop, or even one of the windows looking down from across the square, bullets rained down and peppered the front of the jeep, Ludwig shouting for his men to fall back. Another car from their convoy roared up next to him to block the assault, the machine gun mounted to the back swinging around and unloading several clips in their enemy's direction.

The reinforcement didn't stop the molotov from flying through the air at them. A bottle of alcohol with a burning cloth stuffed down the neck, it shattered and spread fire all over the rescue vehicle. The gunman flailed and screamed before dropping out of sight to escape the flames eating him alive.

_'Italy, what are you __**doing?**__'_ The thought made his heart feel tight with rage, but with the chaos filling with screams and more gunfire, Ludwig heard something else break through the noise.

"_VENEZIANO!"_

It wasn't the same voice as before, but a short burst of Italian stopped the gunfire coming from the palace. Ludwig stood tall and pushed forward between the two vehicles, motioning for his men to stay down out of sight in case someone started shooting again. For himself, he wasn't afraid of a few bullets and moved until he could see around the burning tank and through the white smoke.

Someone came running again, but before he could bring his pistol up to shoot the man stopped running and spun around, whipping the hat off his head and letting his dark hair soak up the sunlight.

"_VENEZIANO! Monster! Look at me!"_

_'Romano?'_ It was South Italy. Ludwig couldn't remember seeing Romano in civilian clothes before, but his uniform was gone and he was standing there in simple brown and black attire. His hat was still on the ground and he was holding a pistol up and pointed at someone Ludwig couldn't see, the bleeding Italian panting for breath.

"Coward!" _That_ was the voice Ludwig had heard before. Feliciano wasn't speaking English or German so the onus was on Ludwig to translate the enraged Italian words as they came at him. Thankfully, there wasn't much talk. "So you choose your king over your own brother? _Again!"_

If he hadn't been able to _see _Italy as he shouted, Ludwig wouldn't have been able to connect the voice to the speaker. But there he was, forming out of the smoke the way Romano had, an identical pistol in his hand and mirroring his brother's position, his other hand clenched in a fist at his side. Ludwig couldn't remember seeing North Italy with such a dark expression on his face, and they'd charged into battle together on numerous fronts as the war carried on.

There was no stuttering, no screaming, no wandering thoughts or simplistic distractions. Ludwig _knew_ Feliciano was different behind closed doors than out in public or with his friends, because there was no other way to explain how plans he slept through conceiving were carried out in Rome. The Italians were next to worthless on every front, but they always showed up and their failure to perform was never the result of not knowing where to go or what to do. Italy was Fascist, and he'd been that way for years before Germany had adopted it too...

This was just Ludwig's first time seeing it.

"I choose my king over the monster _you_-"

North Italy's gun went off and South dropped his with a yell, Ludwig watching his friend take off at a run after shooting at his own brother. The space between them was gone in an instant and Romano took a fist to the jaw before losing his balance and hitting the ground, swinging his leg out and knocking the younger one's feet out before Italy could shoot him- because that was what he nearly did.

So Italy _did_ have the mettle to shoot someone, and Romano had the courage to pull a knife and lunge with it, the blade held by a fist that powered down toward his brother's chest. The officer stopped it with a hand on his wrist and another punch that hit the rebellious south in the middle of his chest, winding him and forcing Romano to fall back as his brother pushed himself up.

Against humans, Nations fought like anyone else; they bled, they shouted, and they struggled, but against one another it was different. Italy hit his brother with the gun so hard it should have cratered his skull, but Romano just responded by wrenching his hand free and carving the knife across his sibling's shoulder, scoring the blue tunic before the abrasive cloth caught the blade and wouldn't let him pull it free. They were swearing at each other, screaming even when Romano kicked his brother off of him; he almost took a bullet in the chest before Italy's gun was empty and he tossed it aside in favour of the abandoned knife.

The conflict came to Ludwig in pieces: the south was rebelling and the king had thrown out their boss, but the north wouldn't hear of it. The north hated the king, he'd always hated him, he'd never wanted him to begin with. The names of battlefields came up and blows were traded to match each defeat and loss: mistakes in the war that they blamed on each other. Both halves of Italy accused each other of corruption: Mafia bribes, Nazi gold, Jewish diamonds... the list went on.

Ludwig had taught, but had never actually seen Feliciano perform, the move that broke Lovino's wrist. It was that kind of violence that kept him back, because the German officer was too stunned by what he was seeing to dare get between the two. Nations could fight each other for hours without giving up or choosing a winner, and Ludwig had never seen either Italian brother get into one like this. Lovino bit his brother's hand so hard there was an audible crunch, Feliciano roaring back in pain before he used the same hand to slam the other man's head into the paving stones.

He'd never seen his ally fight like this before, and it was as wrong as it was rewarding. Did this signal a change then? Would Italy fight like this against the Allies now? Because if he did, then-

Then it would be England choking on blood when Italy hit him that hard in the gut. It would be Russia struggling to get away from the furious man straddling his torso. It would be America with Italy's strong hands wrapped around his throat, gasping for breath as the life was squeezed out of him. France would never make another move again if he knew Italy was waiting for hi-

The sound of several guns firing at once snapped Ludwig out of his thoughts, just like they snapped Italy's hands up off Romano's bruised throat. It took all three nations a moment to process what had just happened, but it was a moment that ended with Feliciano coughing red before touching the bullet holes riddling his chest.

_"Shoot him!_" Ludwig bellowed, remembering himself and screaming the command to snap his men back into action. Romano shoved his brother off with two hands and Italy hit the ground without moving, the south scrambling to get away before finding his feet and taking off at a run.

"_Don't let him get away!"_ Italian voices joined German shouts, the men Italy had been commanding opening fire through the smoke-screen, only to have Romano's hidden allies return fire and send Ludwig himself ducking for cover.

"_Go after them!_" The firefight was short lived: the rebels were in retreat and Ludwig roared at the scattered members of his convoy to make haste. Two black jeeps bearing the flag of the regime tore off down the streets of Rome, and a brigade of Italy's own Blackshirts was already on the move as well.

All of this left Ludwig and a handful of his men, some of them injured, standing in a Roman square with two smouldering wrecks and a bleeding Italian nation. And questions. Dozens of questions. Like where was the regular army?

Ludwig expected screaming. He expected terrified shrieks and panicked eyes. He expected begging and whining and tears and for Italy's hands to grab the first person to come near him and beg them for whatever relief or safety he could get. That was what Ludwig expected as he marched across the square to the bleeding man, but once again, Italy surprised him.

One of the Italian _Squadristi_, a Blackshirt as Italy's boss and Germany's affectionately called them, was kneeling next to his nation with the gun he'd been using slung over his back, one hand on Italy's throat feeling for a pulse. It was a useless act: of course there was a pulse, Italy was a nation and his head and heart were still both attached to the rest of him. Ludwig didn't know why his friend seemed so calm, but when Italy reached up to the soldier with one bloody hand, his rough, half-choked words were a simple request.

"Move me back... I hate lying... in my own blood..."

_'Hmph.'_ So here was the answer to the question he had asked Ludwig so many years ago in a forest in Southern Germany. What would happen to Italy if he was shot by the enemy, but they missed every vital organ, and he was left lying in a slowly expanding pool of his own blood? Ludwig watched the Blackshirt take the nation by the shoulders and drag him until he could rest his head back on the first stone step leading up into the palace. It left a grizzly trail over the ground, but a pleasant answer in Ludwig's mind: _'You'd take it like a man and wait for it to heal, Italien.'_

After four years of war Ludwig had begun to actively fear the worst about his southern ally, but for the first time in just over two decades of work and friendship, Ludwig finally felt _proud_ of Italy. It was difficult to be brave when facing one's enemies, but to go so far against his own _brother?_ Now Ludwig understood why Prussia had encouraged their alliance. Finally Austria's comments about the Italian Unification wars made sense.

"_Germans..._" Italy's coughing voice.

"They showed up just when you started fighting, sir." With the sun high overhead Ludwig understood that it wouldn't be easy for Italy to make out his face right away, but he'd figure it out soon enough as he approached the two, folding his arms with a smile. Putting aside the issue of South Italy for just a moment, Ludwig was pleased with what he'd learned today.

"_Shit..._" At least, he was until he heard Italy stress one of the few cusses he'd ever uttered in Ludwig's presence. The Italian officer reached for the switchblade his brother had plunged into his thigh and pulled the slim blade free, keeping his hand around the silver handle as his breath hissed through his teeth with the pain. The knife had gone back and forth between the two of them while fighting, but it looked like Italy was claiming it for his own now.

"You fought well, _Italien._" Ludwig stated, reclaiming some of his good cheer as he crouched down next to his bloodied comrade, getting a good look at him now.

Italy's uniform was close to his usual one, but not quite the same; a bit dressier, slimmer pants down his legs, a neater fit in the shoulders and waist, and a small collection of medals over his breast that had been blasted away by one of the bullets. Just by looking at his uniform, Ludwig knew that the North half of the Kingdom of Italy had been meeting with his boss today, or at least he'd planned to.

As for the rest of him, bloody and sweating from the fight, he was only breathing in short pants while blood bubbled up and soaked his shredded shirt and tunic. He kept moving one booted foot as if he could regain his mobility already, flexing both hands just to prove he could. His tanned skin was washed out from blood-loss but also flushed in the cheeks- he wasn't blushing though, because as soon as Ludwig looked in his brown eyes and Italy actually recognized him, the Italian nation stopped moving and went deathly pale.

Not the reaction Ludwig expected.

"How much- what did you see?" Italy choked, his lips scarlet with blood he'd been about to spit out but now thickly swallowed. Reaching down, Ludwig swept his thumb over Italy's full lower lip, wiping away some of the blood and almost scolding him for trying to swallow what would only make him sick.

"Everything." He tried to re-enforce the answer with a smile, even if he wasn't very good at it, but there was a strange look in Italy's eyes and it only grew stronger the longer they stayed on the ground like this. Ludwig couldn't name it, but he could tell it was by no means positive.

"Captain, we have to get out of here." The Blackshirt whispered quickly, and Ludwig couldn't help but give Italy a curious look. The nation didn't look at his soldier, but he answered just the same.

"I know..." His voice was not going to come back to him until he'd had time to rest and begin to recover. For now, Italy tried to take a deep breath before saying anything else, but that only led to coughing and more blood leaking freely from his body. They needed to take him inside so he could- "Get the others. A truck. Anything."

The order was vague but it sent the man running, shouting to his comrades and sending them off trying to find something of use. Ludwig noticed then that none of them had calmed down or relaxed with South Italy's disappearance, and he turned a harder look than was probably necessary on his confusing little friend.

"What's going on?"

"_Later._" Italy swallowed blood again, then clenched his red-washed teeth and tried to lift his head, Ludwig watching in surprise as the Italian actually managed to prop himself up a little bit before lifting a hand for help. He wanted to stand? Like _that?_ What was going on here? How much had changed since they'd last spoken?

"Italy." He said firmly. "What did I just see?" It was not a rhetorical question, it was not Ludwig talking down to him saying _'You just had a big fight and now you're injured so where do you think you're going?'. _No. He wanted to know what that had been, and Ludwig wanted to know_ now._

"_Treason_." Italy grunted, Ludwig finally taking his hand and helping him sit up- he wasn't surprised when Italy struggled to cry out from the pain of moving. He gasped and coughed, choking on blood and scraps of flesh as his front and back were both coated in red. He couldn't speak again after that, but Ludwig waved his hand to bring his waiting men roaring up in what remained of their original convoy. He'd have to radio the others back before they were too far out of range.

"What are you talking about? What treason?"

"_My brother-_" Ludwig didn't know, but he could guess that the tears that finally pricked Italy's eyes were as much from the burning agony in his flesh as they were from mentioning Romano. He couldn't finish his sentence because of it all, and two of his Blackshirts returned in a hurry and coaxed Ludwig to move back. Together, they gingerly hoisted their nation up in their arms before Ludwig could fight to understand him, the German nation looking around again, wondering where the official Italian army was. The Blackshirts were para-military, where were the rest?

Before Ludwig could put the question to any of them, one Blackshirt, a man who had a very bare understanding of German, quickly stepped in between the two nations and spoke in fast, clumsy bursts.

They had to get out of Rome.

They had to get North Italy to safety.

They had to find their Leader.

And they needed Germany's help.

-.-

Just barely on the road back to Berlin, and only in full after several weeks of Ludwig fighting on two individual fronts, was the situation in Italy finally explained to Germany and the Führer.

Italy's Boss of twenty years had been overthrown by his own Fascist council. Italy's king had had the man imprisoned somewhere in the north. The new Italian government wanted to surrender to the Allies now before things got any worse for the Axis. The one spear-heading the entire operation was a familiar politician and Resistance Leader named Lovino Vargas.

When Ludwig finally asked his best friend why Feliciano had fought against his brother, not with him, his answer was decidedly childish and simple:

"Ve~ don't be silly, Germany. I haven't had a king in years!"

Ludwig didn't question him. Instead, between reports and command positions and patrols in his occupied territories, Ludwig ate the pasta Italy made for him, attended meetings with Japan, and wondered if he would ever have another chance to see that hard-eyed, knife-wielding warrior from Rome again.

Meanwhile, Italy kept Romano's knife.

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**This story was a lot more awesome before I fact-checked it against what really happened in Rome in July of '43. I totally thought that the king tried to overthrow Mussolini, but he was like "LOLNO." and chased the king out before taking over North Italy (which is why Romano ran away, because I'd already written the end of the fight when I looked it up).**

**THAT'S NOT WHAT HAPPENED. I HAD TO KILL A BEAUTIFUL SCENE BECAUSE THAT'S NOT WHAT HAPPENED.**

**So this is now a multi-chapter and not an epic one-shot. Bleeeeh.**


	2. A Broken Axis

**Mirage, I Have a Story.**

**Huh. Well I wasn't sure if I'd be posting a second chapter or not, but I finished the third this morning so, why not? I think this story will be about 5 chapters in total (possibly 6?), so I'm quite pleased with myself for getting three done.**

**Reviews help though! Please review?**

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_**Fascist State**_

A Broken Axis

_September 3__rd__, 1943..._

Despite his power and ability to wage war, Ludwig had to admit sometimes that he simply wasn't that old as a nation. He had only existed in his current form, with memories extending into the past, from about 1815. Compared to Italy who could remember and had had a close relationship with empires like Ancient Rome, Greece and Byzantium, or someone like Japan who literally could not remember a time when he had _not_ existed, it was very humbling.

Usually, however, Ludwig didn't have cause to be reminded of the age difference between himself and his southern ally (Japan was another matter, he was _so_ old that he often brought it up even in idle conversation). Italy was Italy, he sang, took long naps, ate pasta, created messes, painted pictures, and generally did nothing that required even the slightest bit of maturity or wisdom to see through.

From July until September, Italy stayed in Germany. He left all of two times while Ludwig was away, the household staff reporting that Feliciano had ducked across the boarder into his own territory a few times, presumably to follow up leads about where his former boss had been imprisoned by the new government in Rome. Ludwig didn't put much stock in the effort but his own boss actively encouraged it with proud rhetoric and sweeping hand gestures.

If he was completely honest, Ludwig quite liked Italy's boss and he understood why he wanted him back. Hard-working, strict, and not easily amused, Italy's boss and Germany's had got along well and traded ideas and practices for years leading up to the war they were in now. The only problem with him, Ludwig slowly realized, was that despite everything there was to like about the man, he had somehow failed to inspire the kind of fighting spirit in Italy that Feliciano had displayed on the day of his arrest.

If Feliciano could have fought like that in Greece, Ludwig never would have had to bail out the Italian forces. There would be no crisis in the Balkans, Italy would not have lost his territories in North Africa, and maybe a few of the men who had been sent to the Eastern Front might actually have survived being there...

The memories of that one brief, brutal fight in Rome followed Ludwig like a ghost. He even spoke to Japan about it, which only earned him a light scolding and a warning not to drink so much during a war, because it was obviously giving him strange dreams of impossible things.

After two months and an exhausting series of battles on the Eastern Front, Germany was beginning to think he really had imagined it. There was no way he could have gone through four years of war with Italy as his ally and never _once_ seen that hard-eyed, bullet-riddled soldier who'd nearly choked his own brother to death. South Italy's behaviour was uncanny in exactly the same way: it was impossible to imagine that Romano knew how to fight like that, or, even if he knew, that he'd have the gall to go through with it. Ludwig had seen the brothers smack and yell at one another, but the hits were more like skittish slaps or rough bonks, and the yelling was usually prefaced with tears and whining and begging.

He'd dreamed it. From July 26th until September 2nd, Ludwig convinced himself he'd dreamed all of it up.

And then September 3rd happened.

"While I understand Italy's situation, shouldn't he still come to these meetings?" It was as close to demanding something as Japan ever came, but to be fair Ludwig was almost as frustrated as his eastern ally. The two of them had been sitting in the formal meeting room in one of Germany's largest bases in Berlin for almost an hour, waiting to discuss actions on all fronts, and Italy still hadn't shown up.

"I swear, if I catch him flirting with the secretaries _one more time_ I-"

"Let us not be too hasty." Japan was calm as they both stood up and left, Ludwig marching briskly through the base corridors while his friend trailed only half a step behind and moved with a great deal more grace and subtlety. They quickly reached the barracks on-base and a moment later Ludwig was pounding his fist on Italy's door, annoyed that they hadn't run into him along the way already.

"Italy open up!" He shouted, and without waiting Ludwig twisted the handle, expecting it to resist and lock him out. Instead, it opened smoothly and there was no chipper laugh or terrified shrieks to greet him. In fact, Ludwig almost mistook the tiny room for being empty; it was Japan who actually noticed Italy sitting on the edge of the narrow bed.

"...Are you feeling unwell, Italy?" the Empire asked in a smooth, delicate way. Ludwig had been prepared to huff and puff at the little imbecile once they found him, but his temper was held back by what he saw.

For starters, Italy didn't give any visible reaction that he'd noticed them bursting in. His bed was made, which was unusual, and he'd clearly intended to come to their meeting when he got up that morning because the files he'd been told to look over were sitting on the mattress next to him. He was sitting there with his shirt collar popped and his tie in place to begin knotting, but the ends were just hanging loose, one boot done up his calf while the other had been abandoned half-way through the final knot. His tunic and belt were next to him, but he'd shut down without putting on the rest of his uniform, just sitting with his hands holding his head, face staring down at the floor.

"Italy?" Japan shut the door while Ludwig called his name, the two of them noticing how there was only one small lamp light on until Japan fixed that with the flick of another switch. Japan didn't look concerned, but, now they were both feeling it...

"I'm sorry..." Italy said softly, but he spoke in German. "I'm _sorry,_" and Japanese? "_Japan I can't tell you how sorry I-_"

"Italy?" Japan repeated, stepping forward a little without trying to crowd their ally. It didn't surprise either of them to hear Italy fall into their respective languages like that, of the three of them he had the easiest time, and perhaps the most _fun_, with cultural exchange. "Please, tell us what's wrong."

"I can feel it..." Italy said quietly, shaking his head slowly and moving his hands until they were covering his face. "Those traitors in Rome, I can feel what they're doing but I can't stop them." Ludwig knelt down next to his friend, lifting one hand to set on his shoulder- but then stopped. He glanced up at Japan and saw the Empire watching the third Axis member very, very carefully. He didn't seem upset, but he was following Italy's logic much better than Ludwig. What would he feel more ashamed of regarding Japan than Germany..?

"...You've surrendered." Japan whispered, the words coming together as a simple statement.

"No!" Italy's head snapped up and Ludwig wasn't surprised by the red rimming his eyes, a healthy sign that he was fighting off tears. What did surprise him was that the Italian seemed to be winning that fight. "Rome surrendered, not me! The King has no power, he can't take my men away from me." No, but clearly he'd taken the standard army. The only humans Italy had any sway over as he was now were the Blackshirts he'd either brought with him directly from Rome during their retreat, or who had showed up in German territory looking for him. The few hundred ill-equip young men North Italy controlled were a far cry from the army he'd been struggling to maintain before now.

"Japan, I know what surrender means in your culture- but that's not what this is!" Italy stood and Ludwig recognized the way Japan's eyes slid past them both to focus on nothing at all, his face blank in a way that barely hinted at how much this news upset him. "I know I'm not strong or brave like you two, but I'm still a part of the Axis! I swear it!"

"Perhaps you should stop speaking." Japan answered with a strained smile, his dark eyes ghosting past Italy's dire face and landing on the documents sitting on the bed, towards which he extended one hand. "And it would be better if you returned those."

"Please, Japan-!" the Italian pleaded, and Ludwig found himself just watching his allies argue rather than stepping in between them. He was upset with this news of surrender, a cold chill running down his back and making him uncomfortable under the tight collar of his uniform, but Italy's forceful reaction was unlike him. "Once I bring _Il Duce_ back I swear things will get better, he'll take control of everything in my house- I trust him-"

"Your leader was disposed-"

"And I know where he is!" It was easier to interrupt Japan than it was to actually change his mind, but with Italy's words the Empire's attitude changed somewhat- or at least it looked like it might. He was still so frustrating to read, but with hundreds of his soldiers dying on every misbegotten island in the South Pacific, Japan's hostility made sense right now. For himself, Ludwig was just shocked to see Italy go for the throat with his argument: "I know where they're keeping him and how to get there, and I can bring him back! Japan, even if I can't keep fighting everywhere else at least I can stop the Allies in the mountains!"

It was true that the Allies were making quick progress though South Italy. Part of their meeting today had been meant to discuss how best to use Feliciano's knowledge of the people and terrain in the peninsula to their advantage. Lovino was clearly supplying the Allies with the same kind of information, and if they were to believe history then the brothers had fought one another before. Maybe it hadn't been with tanks and planes and machine guns, but Unifying North and South Italy into one nation had not been a peaceful process...

Ludwig didn't know if Japan was following the same line of thought as he was, but the Empire was very quiet as the three of them stood there in the tiny room. It was clear that he was fighting with himself, trying to come to grips with Italy's surrender in contrast with the slaughter going on in Asia. But the forceful tone of Italy's voice was compelling. He was standing there shaking, looking like he was torn between shouting again or collapsing with tears in his eyes. He was getting ready to beg, Ludwig could see it and he knew Japan was aware of it too. Their friend was cowardly and he was weak, but...

"We have been friends for several years, Italy." Japan chose his words carefully, still distant and unhappy with the situation, but taking it in greater stride than Ludwig expected. "Please, do not disappoint me like this again." Italy immediately began whimpering his thanks, making promises that Japan promptly ignored as he turned to face Ludwig instead.

"Germany. I will be waiting for you back in the conference room." Ludwig only had time to nod before the eastern Empire left in silence, Italy worrying his bottom lip furiously before the door shut and they were left alone.

"He hates me. _He hates me-_ Germany I'm sorry, honesy, I didn't think they'd really do it, at least not this soon, but-"

"Italy, calm down." While Italy didn't exactly make it all the way to _calm_, the fact that he quieted down and sat on the bed again without another word was unnerving. Normally Ludwig would have had to shout at him to achieve that kind of obedience. "Where's this information you claim to have? If you're making stuff up-"

"Here, it's all here," he didn't even get all the way through his threat about what Japan would do to him if the Italian was lying about being able to restore his former boss. The file on the bed was snatched up and Italy forced it into Ludwig's hands, the smaller nation quickly opening it for him before Ludwig waved him off and started going through the information himself, skipping the documents he'd inserted himself and ignoring the ones from Japan.

When he found the pages Italy was going on about, Ludwig couldn't stop his eyebrows from slowly creeping up in surprise.

"I will need to verify this for myself," he said, not sure if he was asking a question or issuing a statement to the Italian, but Italy just nodded without complaint.

"I understand, but please, I-"

"Where did you get this anyways?"

"I... I found it?"

"Found it." Ludwig repeated. Italy meant to say that he'd gone out and gathered it up, compiled the information himself, and presented it like this for his allies to read and approve of. "Some of these are radio transcripts."

"Decoded, yes, I..." Ludwig was staring and he knew it, but he made sure it was harsh enough that Italy had to stop speaking and licked his lips hesitantly with the tip of his tongue. Why were his lips so red? "I used your resources, yes. I'm sorry, Germany but I couldn't just sit around and-"

"What do you need to accomplish this mission?" He asked sternly, ignoring for a moment the fact that Italy had broken the code his brother and the Allies were using in South Italy. It must have been something childish then, something Ludwig's own people had dismissed as too simple but which had resonated with Italy. There was no other explanation. Militarily and tactically, there was nothing Italy could do that Ludwig's men couldn't do better. "If you don't even have your own radios then you must need something else too. How well trained are your men?"

"N... Not very..." Italy admitted sullenly, and Ludwig watched him struggle to swallow before speaking again, his lips still much darker than he was used to- but maybe it was the light. "Guns, and transportation- no, just the transport, nevermind weapons." _What?_

"Nevermind because you have your own, or nevermind because you can't shoot straight?"

Italy didn't answer the question, but for some reason he was able to meet Ludwig's gaze. He tried to say something and broke eye-contact immediately, looking surprised before he touched the back of his hand to his mouth. He still looked like he was going to cry at any moment, and Ludwig sighed roughly and shook his head.

"I'm sending Prussia with you."

"Thank you." Yes, Prussia. Prussia was strong and dependable, he could be counted on to keep everyone more or less sa- he would make the mission a success, that was what Ludwig had to focus on. He'd verify the information in his hands and he'd send Prussia across the border to find Italy's boss, and that would settle all of these issues between the Axis members.

Ludwig left with only a curt nod in the Italian's direction. When he closed the door behind him he mistakenly dismissed coughing for sobs.

* * *

**I have NO idea what Japan's actual reaction to the Italian surrender was, which is why Kiku didn't do much except be disappointed. I think that by this point in the war the Japanese government was pretty much in a state of "WHAT-FUCKING-EVER EUROPE FUCK YOU WE GOT THIS DIE AUSTRALIA DIE". The only thing I could find was mention of three Italian submarines that Japan seized right before Italy surrendered.**


	3. Gran Sasso

**Live Free or Let Me Die, Starvation, Invincible.**

**If you want, you guys can check out the ****Gran Sasso Raid**** for what this chapter was supposed to, but then didn't cover. It's intense stuff guys, WWII was amazing, but it's not necessary for this fic. Whatever information you NEED should be in the text itself, so if it's not (and I'm not leaving it out on purpose) then say so in your reviews so I can fix that.**

**Please review!**

**Thanks, and happy reading!**

* * *

_**Fascist State**_

Gran Sasso

Despite what his brother liked to think, Gilbert was fucking awesome at reading the atmosphere. He knew soldiers and fighters and warriors so well that there was nothing they could sneak by him on the way into battle. He knew the drinkers from the womanizers to the brave-hearts and the turn-coats, and every other kind of man or boy or whatever the army could throw at him.

Which was why Gilbert was fine with having Italy as a member of the raid.

At least, he was fine until he actually met up with Feliciano the night before.

"The fuck is wrong with you?" Italy didn't have to say a word, didn't have to lift a finger, didn't have to even meet Gilbert's eye. He knew what was wrong, he just wanted to confirm it as soon as Italy shut the meeting room door behind him. They were just supposed to go over the details of the mission set for tomorrow morning, but Gilbert wasn't interested in gliders or patrols or the risky-has-hell nature of this crazy mission.

"Hm?" Italy was just standing there by the door, surprised and staring- but his lips were pinched and he backed up a little when Gilbert made his demand. The Prussian even didn't get up from his seat, one arm looped around the back of his chair as he stared over his shoulder at the Italian, but he made another demand:

"Open your mouth."

Italy hitched his shoulders up, his nerves showing immediately as he pressed his back against the door. He wanted to run away but Gilbert could tell he was struggling to come up with an excuse to tell West. If he wanted this mission then he couldn't run.

"'m fine." It was a shitty impersonation of Sweden and Gilbert stood up quickly. He didn't crowd Italy, but he folded his arms stiffly over his chest and gave him a firm look.

"Either you open your mouth and tell me how much you want your boss back, or I'm shutting this mission down right now," which, if he was honest, would be a huge disappointment. This mission was intense and insane and Gilbert had been going nuts for the past eight days putting the final plan together, giddy with excitement waiting for West to put his stupid red stamp of approval on it. Damn did Gilbert ever _want_ to do this, it might get him killed, but succeed or fail it would be fucking _priceless_.

"I-" But there was a reason he needed Italy to say it, and it was the same reason why the Italian's tanned face went unnaturally pale when he tried to. "I need him back-" Italy closed his eyes and swayed slightly, like he'd just felt the room twist or buckle under him. He wasn't steady on his feet but Gilbert fought off the urge to make him stop. "If I bring _Il Duce_ back then we-"

It was exactly what Gilbert thought: Italy couldn't say it and his third attempt ended in wracking, painful coughs. His body's reaction left the Italian shuddering and bracing himself against the wall, a few strings of blood hanging between his red lips and the crimson stain on his palm. Neither Nation was surprised to see the blood.

"Does West know how much North Italy does _not_ want the _Duce_ back in power?" He was so calm about the blood, and Gilbert didn't like it. Italy had a red handkerchief that he used to quickly wipe off his mouth and hand, the Prussian willing to assume that the cloth had been red to begin with and wasn't in terrible need of washing. "Why are you doing this, Feliciano?"

"I made a promise." Fuck, he sounds just like he had a hundred years ago. It was almost _exactly_ a hundred years ago that the different parts of Italy had started banding together for another war against Austria and Spain...

"Hey, you know that whole _'follow the letter of the law and everything'll turn out fine'_ mentality my brother has?"

"Yes?"

"You know that's bullshit, right?" Gilbert put it bluntly because that was what Italy needed right now. No coddling, no mentoring, just one nation talking to another about something that should have been obvious. "C'mon, I mean, you're older than me for Christ's sake. Don't act like you don't know this."

"Prussia, I swore." He was so determined.

"And sometimes nations break their vows." Italy was getting in deep now, and either West couldn't see it or he was ignoring it for some reason. So Gilbert was stepping in, because no, this wasn't okay. Italy was smarter than this. They both had their moments of blinding stupidity but Gilbert could still remember the Risorgimento state that had risen up during the chaos, the side of Italy that had back-stabbed and manipulated his way out of Austria's grasp. Italy was the _last_ person he needed to lecture on the power of nationalism. "If you're going to keep up with this, then for Pete's sake, Feliciano accept that the Kingdom of Italy has surrendered. If you just keep denying it then-"

"I will not surrender until _Il Duce_ orders it." That was a harsh rebuttal coming from him. Italy didn't lower his voice like that without a good, hard reason. "Prussia, thank you, but I'm still in this war." He had to wipe his mouth again after that, and it was a miracle he could speak at all with that much blood coming out of his mouth. "The Kingdom of Italy-" he coughed again, a vicious, terrible sound, "-doesn't answer to the king or the people, just _Il Duce_."

"...You'll kick the shit out of me if I tell West, won't you?"

"To start with, maybe."

"Hmph. Then c'mere and sit down."

* * *

_September 12__th__, 1943_

Fighting was what kept some nations alive. You just couldn't get the same rush from a fast car the way you did from a charging war-horse, or a banking plane, or gunfire and artillery shredding the world around you. Gilbert loved gun turrets and ratcheting machines as much as he'd worshipped the swords and maces of another age...

But he could, through it all, understand why not all nations loved war the way he did. He was capable, at certain hours, of recognizing when violence had reached its peak.

Italy was kind of like the opposite. Italy was the whole reason why the raid began and ended without a single shot fired in that mountain resort where his boss was being held prisoner. Italy wearing a general's uniform, Italy who'd ordered a dozen armed men to stand down, uttering no more than a handful of words to bring everything to a swift, silent end. He hated fighting, he hated killing, he hated hurting and harming and destroying. Italy and Gilbert were almost complete opposites.

But Italy couldn't tell when enough was enough. He was old and sometimes wise, but when Gilbert caught him retching blood only an hour into their journey back from Gran Sasso, he had to make him see the difference.

"You can't keep this up." _Campo Imperatore_ was a ski resort, and one Italy had probably taken him and West too at some point before the war. It was a nice place just outside of Rome but that meant it was also deep in disputed territory. They didn't have time for Italy to freak out on them now. "Look, we got your boss, we trashed the radio, and we didn't _kill_ anyone so come on!"

"_Stop…_" Italy had one hand braced on the side of the building, doubled over and retching blood by the time Gilbert caught up with him. The mission was a fucking success, but Italy's body was reacting even worse than it had back in Berlin.

They could hear the roar of the plane's engine behind them, the two nations standing out of sight of the humans they'd brought with them and rescued. The Italian dictator was a shade of the man Gilbert had met numerous times, but he was alive and bundled up ready to fly out of the mountains. They couldn't just drive out in a convoy, they had to go and they had to go _now._

"Look, if West hasn't figured out that you're _not _a conquering state then at this point that's his problem!" They'd rescued a leader the Italian Partisans had wanted shot dead, not locked up. North Italy could _not talk about_ his brother the South all he wanted, the border between them was too vague to stop political sympathies from crossing the line. He was killing himself by acting against his people… "Italy…"

"Shut _up_…" Placing a hand on the other nation's shoulder, Italy was still gasping and trying to reclaim his breath, spitting red to the cold ground. Gilbert didn't say anything, but even when Italy tried shaking off the hand, Gilbert insisted.

"Hey, listen." If nothing else, maybe he could try and sooth the inflamed, rebellious part of North Italy that was chafing against the thought of putting the dictator back in power: "After everything that's happened, the old guy's all frail and sick looking, so he might not even live long enough to-"

Gilbert felt a hand at his throat and a pain in his side, and a moment later he was flat on his back with a heavy body on his chest and the edge of a silver switch-blade nicking his chin.

"One more word… and I cut out that tongue." The blood on Italy's lips should have made him look pale and clown-like, but somehow the ruby gloss seemed to darken him, the red in his hair highlighted by the crimson ribbon slipping down his chin. He wasn't smiling, his bloody teeth were clenched hard and bared like a dog's and he kept one hand locked around Gilbert's throat, the other letting the knife bite a bit deeper into the Prussian's jaw.

It hurt, but Gilbert knew better than to move. In that moment it wasn't a matter of Italy killing him, it was about just how close Italy was to dying. It didn't matter how much force was in his grip or what kind of anger was keeping Gilbert pinned down, because there was a catastrophic kind of fear screaming through the Italian's brown eyes.

Fear of rebellion, fear of loss, fear of pain and poverty and humiliation. But more than that there was something else, something deeper, something Prussia himself had never felt before, but he'd seen it. It wasn't a fear that humans knew, not as individuals, it was only when they became a collective, a nation, that they could begin to tap into it.

The fear of _collapse_.

"Il… Il Duce." Gilbert formed the words carefully, using just his tongue and releasing barely a puff of air through his lips. He didn't want to send that knife carving across his throat, and exhaling to quickly would do just that. "He's waiting… So, no tears…"

For several moments, Italy didn't move. The pressure on the knife stayed exactly where it was, a thin line of warm blood slipping down Gilbert's throat from the blade's sharp edge before Italy finally changed his hold on the small weapon. The southern state sucked in a slow, surprisingly deep breath, then straightened his legs and stood up in a single smooth motion.

He wobbled right after that, but Gilbert didn't help him stay steady on his feet, and both nations took a moment to clean away any blood that would alarm the humans waiting for them. Gilbert couldn't do anything about the visible wound on his chin, but he still waited for it to quickly start clotting while Italy used that red handkerchief to wipe the crimson off the knife.

"Let's go." The Prussian was going to pretend, however half-heartedly, that he hadn't just felt a twinge in his gut that meant something more than nerves and suspicion. He was going to pretend he hadn't just felt something equivalent to an explosion or a small armed attack on his people scattered across North Italy's territory. Gilbert was going to convince himself that when Italy found the strength to walk straight and not stumble all the way back to the field with the plane, it was _not_ because he'd just given in to the bloodlust the Italian people were struggling to hold back against their German friends.

That was what Gilbert was going to tell himself, until he could reach West with the truth.

* * *

**I have barely started the fourth chapter, so no promises on when this will be updated next, I'm just really bored tonight and wanted to update something. So, update!**

**Reviews, guys?**


	4. The Dictator

**Evolution, Starvation, No Turning Back, Epica (by Audiomachine).**

**I should probably point out that this fic follows the same headcanons from my other WWII piece, "British Bulldog", but that was just a one-shot and this's obviously got several chapters.**

**If I ever go back to it, there's also another one for Prussia and Hungary I've got called "Vodka and Grin", but I need to hammer out the third chapter before going anywhere with that.**

**Here we go!**

* * *

_**Fascist State**_

The Dictator

_September 23rd, 1943._

"West, listen to me!"

"I will not have this conversation carried out of doors!" Well then it was West's own damn fault for walking out on him.

"West!" Storming down the woodland path surrounding their boss' bunker, Gilbert was beginning to slowly chafe against his little brother's control in this war. He'd known it was time for his pint-sized sibling to take the reins, but this wasn't how it was supposed to go: Germany was not supposed to walk _away_ when Prussia had something fucking important for him to hear. "Have you lost your mind?"

"No, but maybe you have." West was walking with his shoulders back, spine ram-rod straight as he whistled for one of his dogs to come back to the path, the happy German Shepherd trotting out of the trees and into the brisk sunlight. "You are mistaken."

"The hell I am!" Picking up into a jog, Gilbert trounced down the gravel path until he came to a skidding halt in front of his little brother. Damn him if he wasn't getting sick of that serious look being sent his way! "No! West, you've done good with this war, I'm not saying you haven't, but you don't know what you're dealing with now."

"Italy is fine."

"_He is not!_"

"He brought his master back, that's more than he's done throughout this entire war!" Yes, exactly, so- "Now you want me to reward that kind of behaviour by confronting him and asking where his loyalties are? You weren't in Rome, you didn't _see _him-"

"You're wrong." Not about Gilbert not being in Rome, because he physically hadn't been, but- "You're so, so wrong about that, brother. I know exactly what's going on. I _have_ seen what you're talking about, and if you don't believe me then go find that stuffy aristocrat and get _him_ to tell you about it!" Austria had been Italy's enemy during the Unification wars. Austria knew _better_ than Prussia what kinds of things he was capable of. "West you can't _trust_ him!"

"Italy is my friend-"

"But the Italian people are _not!_"

_That_ finally made West stop and look at him, his little brother glaring now in a way that wasn't cute, and it wasn't making Gilbert feel any better about trying to have this conversation! He wasn't fucking adorable anymore, not after four years of war, not after too many new laws and a growing number of lost battles. West was strong, but now they were in trouble, and Gilbert had to make him _see_ and _think_ about where the next problems would arise.

"West, we're nations, _think _for a minute about what that means, and remember that Italy's boss was taken out by a popular revolution!"

"In the south-"

"_In the north too!"_ God damn it, West, snap out of it! "You and I both know what _they_ talked about last night!"

They did not mean North and South Italy, because the brothers hadn't seen one another since their fight in Rome. As far as everyone was probably concerned, it was going to stay that way too: they'd kill each other if they met again. When the different parts of a nation turned on one another, their first reaction was always, _always _to kill and take control. It was instinctive, nations were not human but they were still born from nature, they still had impulses they couldn't control: to kill an adversary was one of them, to obey the hearts and will of their collected peoples was another.

The _'they'_ Gilbert meant did not refer to the Italy brothers, he was talking about their bosses: the Fuhrer and the Duce. The Italian was showing and feeling his age a lot more than the German master, and Gilbert had seen a terrible, haunted look on Italy's face several times since they'd reached Rastenburg a few days ago. North Italy could barely walk around the compound anymore, but he was writing it off as being lazy and needing sleep, smiling and 've'-ing whenever West was around to hear or notice him. His leader was getting ready to quit on him, and both Gilbert and Feliciano knew that without the Duce at the helm, North Italy wouldn't be able to hold back and remain with the Axis.

He'd turn on them or he'd die, and Italy was too old to commit suicide for the sake of his friends.

Now if only West would fucking _listen_ to him!

"He is my closest friend-"

"If you care about him, West, then you'll either lock him up or send him back to Rome."

"What part of _friend_ don't you understand!" West boomed back, and Gilbert planted his feet on the path and clenched his hands at his side, refusing to back down. Yes he's handed control of this war over to his brother, and yes West had done fucking fantastic with it for the first three years, but no, he wasn't going to let him make such a basic mistake! "I am not sending him to Rome for the Allies to kill! I'm not feeding him to his brother!"

"Then lock him up!"

"_I am not treating my ally like a dog!_"

"Well Japan would!" Gilbert snapped back, ignoring the low growl of the German Shepherd trotting around the two of them like a wolf. West's familiar could growl and snarl all it wanted, West knew better than to attack Prussia. If he made that mistake then this war would be over by the end of the month, so he kept pushing: "Better yet when he gets here in a week, he _will_. Italy will be in in chains locked up in a cell before October, or maybe Japan will just send him to that camp where you've been keeping France since you caught him."

West was staring at him in shock, wide-eyed disbelief showing just how young he really was. He opened his mouth and gaped like a fish, but Gilbert was ready for it and cut him off before he could get going:

"Yes, this is about France." He'd been one of Gilbert's closest friends for centuries, but also one of the earliest casualties of this war. "Because this is a _war_, West, and if your friends can't be trusted then they become your enemies, and the only way you win is if you kill or break them! Break Italy in a cell or send him to die against the Allies, but if you let him sit here and feed off you then you're just waiting for another coup!"

"_Enough!_" West threw his hands in the air and turned to march off, but he came up short and Gilbert almost stormed into him before he realized why. Coming in a hurry down the path towards them was a young soldier in green, and as soon as he saw them the human stumbled to a stop and pointed back towards the bunker.

"Sirs! There's a situation!" Situation? "Please, come quickly!"

Gilbert swallowed the _'I told you so'_ that came bubbling up his throat. West didn't turn around to acknowledge him, and the brothers started marching without another word.

* * *

Ludwig didn't know what he expected, but it wasn't the kind of tense, anxious environment he came back to. A brief question to the man on duty by the door told him his Boss was still out on his morning walk around the compound, and he wasn't hurrying back so whatever this was it couldn't be of critical importance.

He was wrong.

The first thing either of them heard was screaming, and as soon as the first one went off both halves of the nation broke into a flat run. They escaped the sunlight and tore down dark corridors, East grabbing his shoulder and tugging towards the meeting room.

There was a small crowd of soldiers and servants clustered nearby, no one coming too close to the door. Mixed in with the Germans were at least four Italian Blackshirts, each one looking queasy and unsteady on his feet. When Ludwig stormed up to try and demand an explanation, one of Italy's men simply fainted and his companions didn't even try to help him up.

Something was wrong with Italy. Something was very, very wrong, but through the thick walls of the meeting room he could only hear voices, not words.

But he knew one of them, and he knew he hadn't heard Italy roar like that in a very, very long time: not since that hot summer day in Rome.

He heard a gunshot and Italy's screams doubled in volume.

"Open the door!"

"It's locked-"

East wasn't often this useless, but he was just standing there by the door as the people cowered back and Ludwig marched over to him. He didn't know who Italy was shouting at, but he called on all of the physical strength he possessed and brought one foot up, slamming it against the edge of the door hard enough to splinter the wooden frame and send the whole thing swinging in with a bang- or was that another gunshot?

The first thing Ludwig saw inside was blood. Red was clinging to the walls and scuffed across the concrete floor, the large table was marked with circles of the sticky mess, papers scattered and stained crimson.

"_I AM THE NATION!_"

Ludwig was inside before he saw Italy, before he heard him scream in a language that wasn't Italian or German or any other human tongue, but something else: something special. He was in the room with the light haze of gunfire over the copper stink of the blood, but before Ludwig could comprehend any of it he saw the switch-blade in Italy's hand and the way he lunged at the human holding the gun.

Ludwig didn't think.

There wasn't time.

He pulled the pistol from his belt and he shot his best friend.

The bullet clipped Italy in the shoulder and his momentum carried him into the wall, the steel switch-blade still clutched in one hand as he snarled and hit the floor on one knee. There was blood dripping freely from his open mouth and red spreading out from another gunshot to the stomach, but he wasn't done. Ludwig should have expected Italy to give up and maybe look at him with half the shock and horror Ludwig found himself struggling with after pulling the trigger. Instead, Italy took up a sprinter's position and lunged again.

"_Italy!"_ No, not like this, this wasn't what Ludwig meant when he said he wanted the fighter back. Italy's boss fled from the corner he'd backed into and Ludwig rushed in to fill the gap. East was completely lost to him, he had no idea where his brother was.

Italy was so focused on his target he ran right into Ludwig, and because he couldn't stand it the German state placed one hand on his friend's chest and grabbed the front of his uniform. He pushed with both arms and took Italy's feet right off the floor, hissing when he felt the hot lick of the knife across his cheek. He slammed the smaller nation against the wall and clenched his teeth when he heard Italy gag and felt his chest compress dramatically with the force knocking his breath away.

But then Italy retched blood.

Not the kind of blood from a gunshot wound or a bruised kidney. No bright red blood from a fresh wound gushing free from the heart or an artery.

Thick blood. Black blood. Heavy and semi-spoiled in his system, it was blood that had already congealed inside of him, and the volume of it filled his throat before the Italian choked on it. Down it came like a wave over his lips and chin, dribbling down his throat and staining the black collar of his shirt, his tie already dyed a hellish indigo from the putrid flesh. Ludwig just held him up in the air like that, too stunned to drop him as bubbles broke through the thick flood from his lungs. Italy's eyes cleared for an instant when he recognized Ludwig in front of him, but then they clouded right back over with pain and something else.

He clenched his cherry-black teeth and then Ludwig felt the sharp sting again- and this time Germany reacted.

Nations could be friends, they could be lovers, they could be companions for one another throughout the ages, but when Ludwig felt that knife sear his throat the Greater German Reich couldn't fight off his training or his instincts. He'd helped Italy for years, they'd been friends for decades, and Ludwig conjured up all the white noise his mind could tolerate as Purssia's words and Italy's actions collided. He dropped the Italian and struck out with his left arm towards Italy's face, and he felt his knuckles bruise with the force he put behind the attack.

It hit and Italy's entire body twisted and bent to get away from it, but he only stumbled and didn't drop after a blow that should have cracked his jaw and teeth. He was still holding that knife and Ludwig saw his other hand going for the pistol at his belt, the German lifting his own again to-

_BANG!_

Wh-

_Bang- bang!_

Three gunshots so close together, both in time and target. Ludwig was stunned with his pistol only half-raised, mentally checking for a moment to verify that he wasn't in any pain beyond the nick on his cheek and the thin ribbon of warm blood sliding down his throat. He hadn't been shot, but Italy had-

Italy had been shot three times, with each bullet searching for his immortal heart. The flesh over the left side of his chest was mangled now and the air around him thick with misted red blood, and the Italian seemed too stunned by his injuries to fall over. He found the floor slowly, one hand reaching down to the concrete and brushing his fingertips against the cold stone before he dropped to one knee, then both. If Italy was struggling to cope then Ludwig was still a mile behind him.

Shot in the heart.

He'd been shot in the heart.

But his heart would still be able to keep beating despite that, right? And his head was still attached so he would be fine, wouldn't he?

All the violence and decisive action left Ludwig so fast he felt his knees lose their strength, staring wide-eyed at the nation kneeling on the cold floor with his head lolling from his shoulders. Italy had his gun on the ground and that knife still resting weakly in his grasp, but he wasn't moving. When Ludwig looked up at the person responsible, he found Prussia's grave eyes watching from the doorway and felt himself go even colder:

Italy's boss was the one holding the gun.

Italy had been shot through the heart by his own leader.

'_No, please God, no…'_ The political implications were staggering. Had Italy attacked his boss first or had he been reacting to something? Had he meant to fire three times in the heart or had he just pointed and shot with incredible luck? Italy was still sitting up- but was he breathing? _'No- No, don't- __**please**__…'_

Don't die, no- Italy couldn't die.

"Look at me." The words were short, simple Italian. Italy did not answer his boss's voice as the old man slowly moved closer, coming to stand over his kneeling form. "Look at me, Feliciano."

From behind the fall of his auburn hair, Ludwig saw Feliciano quirk his head and look at _him_, disobeying the Italian dictator with the gun. God, why was he ignoring the leader he'd gone through so much terror and trouble to rescue? Why was he looking at Ludwig right now at such a critical moment?

'_Italy is my friend!'_

'_But the Italian people are __**not!**__'_

Please, god…

"Feliciano…?"

"Tell our allies your new name, Feliciano." New name? Why would he-?

Feliciano moved his head again, opening his mouth to let a gruesome mouthful of that brackish blood out of his throat and mouth. Ludwig had been right: Italy wasn't breathing… He cleared his throat without coughing, either by letting the blood drip off his tongue, or slide back into his lungs to congeal and drown him.

But he could still speak, if only in Italian, and if only in a rough, breathless voice that was barely his:

"My name is General Feliciano Vargas of Venice, Representative of the Northern Half the Kingdom-" the dictator took an angry breath, and from his knees the nation looked at him spoke straight up the barrel of the gun pointed between his eyes: "-of Italy, loyal subject of _His Royal Majesty_ King Victor Emmanu-!"

_BANG!_

And then North Italy was dead…

* * *

It took Lovino Vargas about maybe thirty seconds to recognize that something had happened. He just kind of stopped talking, and his eyes fell to the smouldering end of his cigarette like he was in a trance. He had a pen in his other hand but that had stopped moving, and he picked up the nub off the page so the ink wouldn't keep flowing and botch the letter. Who was he writing to again?

"Romano?" America was sitting across the table from him, with his brother who looked just like him taking the third side. "Hey, you alright?"

"Uh… yeah."

"Would you like something to drink?" No… No that- actually yeah. Romano set his pen down and reached for the flask when the Canadian pulled it out and took off the cap. He didn't actually care what was inside, Lovino just tipped the contents back and kept himself from drinking all of it. The burning in his throat brought a kind of heat, something that fought against the sudden chill that clamped down over his back and shoulders.

He felt a little better as he handed the alcohol back, watching Canada offer a swig to his brother before taking one for himself.

Watching the brothers interact with a smile and silence suddenly started hurting.

"I, uh…"

And then that hurting started getting a lot worse.

"I need some air."

The hurting killed the anger and the rage, and it took all those little "_when I see you again_"s and broke them, one by one, like the necks and wings of fragile birds. He couldn't think of what kind of bird to make the metaphor complete right now, but as Lovino- as the Kingdom of Italy, stood up and hurried out of the small occupied building in one of his villages far in the south of his territory- As he did that, he-

"_Oh my god…"_

He…

* * *

**Not my best fight scene, but I tried.**

**I think there'll be two, maybe three more chapters to this. Review guys! I'll get chapter 5 up when I can!**


	5. Republic of Salo

**Epica (AudioMachine), No Turning Back**

**I'm baaaaack!**

**And: HOW DID I MAKE THAT MISTAKE? Thank you to the anon who pointed out that I said Sweden instead of Norway in Prussia's list.**

* * *

_**Fascist State**_

Republic of Salo

The answer was in the paperwork, the documents strewn across that blood-splattered, bullet-riddled room. Italy's body was lifted and taken outside to be hosed off and that left Gilbert and West to pick through the mess and figure out what happened. Actually, if Gilbert wanted to tell the truth then it was just him sifting through the documents, West was too shell-shocked by what had happened to move.

"He… He just-"

"He attacked you."

"We made a pact..." Well, that was over now, wasn't it? "We promised to protect each other, to help one another no matter-"

"West, look at this." His brother was sitting in one of the meeting room chairs, his hat on the table and his eyes staring blankly at the thick pool of black blood where Italy had been lying. Gilbert finally assembled the documents and brought the blood-smeared pages over to him, pointing to one of the rigidly typed clauses on the first sheet.

_The undersigners hereby consent to the lawful dissolution of the Kingdom of Italy, on this day the twenty-third of September in the one-thousand-nine-hundred-forty-third year of the Lord…_

There were a dozen other clauses and tens of pages dedicated to the legal jargon and political impact of the document, but this line was critical. The blanks for the date had been filled in already and the names of the Italian Dictator and a few of his staff decorated the page, but there was one more blank that had only scratches and ink blots over it, only the F and V visible after whoever had signed it had tried to undo the horrific damage.

Gilbert didn't even have to ask, he knew just by watching West's blue eyes widen and his teeth lock up that he didn't understand what he was reading.

"Italy hates his King…" He was still trying to rationalize it the way he had everything else, West still wanted to believe that his friend was just as simple as he'd ever been. How long was he going to pretend he didn't know how much double-talk Italy used in a given conversation? "He's hated him ever since the Depression, so why would he want to remain a kingdom? Why would he fight this?"

"You know that's not what this is." This wasn't just Italy rejecting his king and declaring himself a Republic, this was so much more than that.

"He… he can't be dead…"

"We'll have to wait and see."

"His territories, his people-"

"Wait and see, West."

That was all they could do.

* * *

It took two days before the back of the Italian's hollow skull began to flesh itself out and rebuild from the brain matter out. Ludwig obeyed his boss and kept the body sequestered in the same room he'd been keeping before, but with a German guard outside the door and a white sheet placed over his best friend's grey face.

He knew his boss and the Italian Dictator were drafting a new constitution for him, and that was why the bullet wounds in his chest and forehead began to mend and stitch themselves together. That was why his flesh didn't start to rot and turn black on the bed. Italy wasn't dead, he couldn't be dead, not really.

One of the most terrifying sights Ludwig had seen since the war really got underway came four days after Feliciano was shot dead in front of him. The Italian had begun breathing again, and Ludwig pulled the white sheet down off his face to check the black and bloody mark from his caved-in skull. And then he opened his eyes.

Feliciano opened his red, red eyes and said:

"Get out."

* * *

There was no wishy-washy feely-filled reason why the Italian rejected West, but there was a very, very good reason why the rejection was made in German, not Italian. Gilbert knew that all of this was a shock to West, but that was only because he couldn't remember the last time the same thing had happened to him. Japan would understand, but Japan wasn't here, he was fighting in the Philippines and would be away for a few more weeks taking care of the Australians and the New Zealanders in Oceania.

If you were going to die then a nation had to know how to change, it was adapt or collapse sometimes, and it was one of the most painful processes any of their kind could go through. Overnight the Axis and Ally-reinforced line across the Italian peninsula went from a painful welt bleeding across the brothers' backs to a physical barrier separating the two of them. Gilbert couldn't relate completely, but he knew from centuries spent bordering on the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth that if Romano's heart was still beating, he'd probably spent the last few days paralyzed on one side of his body trying to cope.

But Feliciano was the one who'd broken away, so he was taking the brunt of it even without the gunshots and obliterated skull. He'd probably signed the document without reading it just so he could get away from his boss, only to realize his mistake as soon as the pain started. Gilbert could only guess but that seemed like the most likely way for things to break down. The Dictator sure as hell wasn't talking, he wouldn't even visit his nation and specifically sent Gilbert to make sure he was sane.

Hah.

Nothing could save Feliciano's blue uniform this time, so when Gilbert got there and entered with only a quiet knock, the Italian paused with his fingers around the knot of his new maroon red tie. The colour made the poisonous red of his eyes stand out, the honey brown colour now permenantly stained that new hue. It had scared West away, Gilbert was sure, now the Prussian just wished he didn't have to recognize it.

As for the rest of him, the brown pants and jacket of his militia were dull after all the blue he'd worn before, rough black boots done up over his ankles. A length of red cord was looped around the plain black of his belt and trailed down to his knee with a set of tassels at the end. Gilbert couldn't figure it out but it probably had some kind of meaning, just like the patches sewn on the upper arm of the tunic slung over the back of the desk chair. The Italian tricolour was preserved on that patch, but instead of the shield of the House of Savoy, a Fascist Eagle done in gold had its wings spread over the green white and red bars.

The fact that Feliciano just stood there staring at him without words was unsettling, but damn him if it wasn't familiar.

"Refresh my memory." Now if only Gilbert could remember which, if any, of North Italy's previous incarnations had spoken fluent German. In the meantime he answered with:

"The year is nineteen-forty-three, September twenty-seventh. Four days ago you were compelled to declare independence from your brother and forswear the Royal House of Savoy to, I assume, become a Republic."

"You assume." His voice had the same tone, he was still a tenor, but it was oh so cold again.

"They don't tell me everything." Gilbert didn't even know whether to think of him as Italy, Feliciano, or something else entirely. It had been too long, and as the Italian dropped his red eyes and went back to mechanically looping and twisting the tie under his chin, Gilbert took that as a sign to continue explaining.

"We're four years into the biggest war the world has ever seen, we are fighting on every continent."

"We?"

"You're allies include the Third German Reich and the Empire of Japan." The brunet in the black shirt swung his brown jacket on and buttoned it up tight over his chest, no medals on his breast this time as his fingers strapped the belt around his waist with precision.

"That's not a lot of allies." For the biggest war in history? Probably not.

"The Third Germany Reich includes the former territories of Austria, Hungary, Belgium, the Netherlands, Denmark, Norway, Romania, Bulgaria, France, Czechoslovakia, Poland… and now you." The other nation watched without expression as Gilbert listed off the names. If anything he looked like he was trying not to frown, but then he just picked up the small black-edged hat from the table and tucked his copper-red hair under the brim. He pulled on a set of black gloves without comment, and it was only after he was completely satisfied with his appearance that he asked his next question.

"And who am I, exactly?"

"I could ask you the same thing." Gilbert had heard… pieces, but to be honest he'd tried just keeping himself busy over the last few days. Gossip wasn't for him when there was a war going on. "What's the last thing you remember?"

It took him a few moments to answer, it was probably all a blur. He'd experienced rapid changes in government, language, culture, economics, and borders. All of those things could disorient and confuse a nation, especially if it was a side of them who'd been asleep for a very, very long time.

"The referendum." Gilbert didn't know what that meant, and the Italian spoke so softly in German that he could barely hear him, his red eyes drifting away back to the bed where he'd been healing for four days. "In Veneto. The referendum to decide loyalty between the Austrian Empire or the Kingdom of Italy…" The very end of the third Italian war of independence… Gilbert had been right all along: Italy had slowly been devolving back into the cut-throat fighter who had made the Sardinians a small, terrifying force to be reckoned with in the 19th century. The pizza and pasta lover had cast down his paintbrush to take up the sword that had consolidated all the tiny kingdoms and communes of North Italy…

"So why are you speaking German?"

"Because the Kingdom of Italy is dead."

* * *

His name, officially, was the Italian Socialist Republic. The name lacked something and they all knew it: the government had written the constitution too fast and without much idea of what exactly he was supposed to be. Half the documents referred to paperwork in Berlin or lost to them in Rome, and the laws of the land were changed to limit the freedom and mobility of his people. With a flag and a few semi-loyal militia men, Kiku was not sure he approved of the changes happening in Europe.

They could not call him Italy anymore, he did not recognize it and when he wasn't just confused by the name then he would simply ignore it. Calling him "_RSI"_ was irritating as well, because it wasn't a name, it was the Italian abbreviation of the same technical information. He did still recognize and accept his human name, Feliciano Vargas, but Kiku was not interested in referring to him so informally when they had important business to attend to.

So they called him Salo, because that was the name of his… eh… Kiku was not quite sure what the town of Salo constituted as, but he was the one to determine that it was not, in fact, the capital of the new republic.

"Have you made any progress against the Allies?" It was not his capital, although Salo did spend most of his time there and it was the place Kiku was expected to travel to if he wanted to see him. He would not make the journey up to Berlin anymore, he claimed he was too busy in the south.

Kiku did not approve of this inhospitable attitude, had this friend not once driven him clear across Asia in order to take him home after one of their meetings? Now he could not be bothered even to take a day and travel from the Republic up into the German heartland. Kiku could have simply left it at that and refused to deal with his newfound attitude, but with a troubling comment made by Prussia and the sharp way Germany dismissed the issue, he was compelled.

"I've been monitoring them." Kiku would have expected to find Italy, any incarnation of Italy, lounging around and sleeping in the brisk December air. Instead, he arrived in Salo at the end of '43 and was barely able to keep up with him as they marched and drove back and forth across the town. The Republic of Salo was the not the kind of nation who was prone to much sleep.

"Have you engaged with the enemy?" Kiku was an old man, but he could still keep up with the quick pace the Italian set, it was not the severity of it that made him lag behind, it was the fact that this was supposed to be his _friend_…

"No. Germany takes care of that."

"Then you're outfitting his men."

"They bring their supplies from Berlin."

"Your farmland-"

"-did not produce well this year." So what, pray tell, was keeping him so busy running around all day? Kiku was not in the mood for this kind of useless exercise, and as the two of them ducked out of the cold winter sun and under a tall archway leading into a newly constructed military compound, he stopped and said as much. Directly.

"What have you been wasting your time with?"

"You could have just asked Germany, I submitted my report to him last week." Meaning he was actually taking the time to fill those things out? He was kneeling to the bureaucracy that made Germany as efficient as he was rigid? No wonder Ludwig refused to hear any criticism about this new nation that had taken North Italy's place, and of course Prussia would pressure him to come down here and witness this. This much change in such a short time was not healthy for a nation, he would not survive like this.

"Feliciano, answer me." He did not like to use such an informal name, but at the same time this could not be allowed to continue. "Listen and tell me- what are you looking at?" Feliciano turned at his name but his red eyes shot right past Kiku's head, focusing on the wall behind him with surprise and then a frightening surge of anger. What on earth-?

"You there, boy! Who was on guard?" As Feliciano yelled at a young man in militia garb standing nearby, Kiku turned and felt his eyebrows creep up at the sight of crimson paint bleeding down the stone wall he'd just been walking by. Some slogan in Italian was dribbling and drying in the cold air, a propaganda image of a plucked eagle slapped over the red and sticking just to the paint.

Resistance propaganda on a government building? Rebellious words painted in the middle of his capital? This was intolerable.

The gunshots Salo unloaded into the stones at the boy's feet to make him run were terrifying.

Two days was all Kiku needed to understand that the town of Salo was not a capital city, and he did not understand why Germany was allowing this to happen. His suspicions, long in forming, were confirmed with the simple act of a handshake that Salo did not want to give him and which Kiku barely wanted to receive. They both would have been happy with a salute, but Germany was incensed about keeping them all friendly and on the best of artificial terms.

So they shook hands, and he felt it.

Or rather, they shook hands and Kiku did not feel it.

"Ve, you can let go now, he's not actually watching." Kiku barely heard the sniping comment, but when Salo tried to pull his hand back, the Empire clenched it harder. No. Why couldn't he feel it? They'd only grudgingly made eye-contact with each other and when Japan tried to re-establish it, Salo looked askance and wouldn't face him. His tanned face was uncomfortable, his red eyes staring at the flags hanging limp in the cold air.

Kiku reached out with his other hand and curled his fingers around Salo's wrist, just to be sure. The false republic squirmed to show he didn't like it, and Kiku understood implicitly why he had remained far away from the encroaching allied line.

The Italian Socialist Republic had no heartbeat.

Feliciano Vargas was a dead man walking.

In the memory of his good friend, Kiku Honda of Japan murmured the only words he could think of as he let the dead man's hand fall from his grasp:

"You must take back Rome, or you will not survive this war." One bullet, one stray explosion, and he would no longer have to fear the humiliation or pain of collapse: he would simply die. If he was injured again then he would not heal because a nation without a capital was not a nation at all, it was only a man in a uniform with a tattered flag and a useless name. And he knew it.

"_Please._" They both knew it.

"You will have my report by the end of the week. Travel safely, Japan."

* * *

**Lots of headcanons~ Originally I wanted a 2P!Italy who was closer to MiaMan's characterization on Tumblr (where he's this bratty, destructive child that I love) but it doesn't quite fit with what I've got here. Oh well, next time maybe. I haven't started chapter 6 yet, but the end is outlined and I just finished my TESL program today, so I have lots of time for all my projects!**

**Leave a review below! Are the headcanons okay? What about the history? This chapter is a little bit rough so if you saw any errors, please point them out!**


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